


into you

by perissologist



Series: a little less conversation [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:25:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: “You think it’s really Nightwing?” Kyle asks, gaze searching ahead in the herd. “Here, in Gotham?”“It’s possible, I guess,” Jason says. “He goes everywhere, doesn’t he?”“C’mon, what’re we waiting for?” Duke is already pushing forward, eyes glittering in excitement. “Man, how crazy would it be if it is him? Dude’s a legend. I’ve been hoping he’d come to Gotham since that one video of him dancing to Tupac on the Eiffel Tower.”---The Outlaws are the best underground hip-hop crew in Gotham--until the anonymous international sensation Nightwing crashes onto the scene.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All The Way Up choreography inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0mAyQnuE8c  
> Into You choreography inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wo2X7NQ2w9o

_“Are—you—ready?”_

 

A deafening cry rises from the crowd, primal and free in its unrestrained delight. The lights burn blue, green, red, illuminating the teeming mass inside the warehouse in flashbulb snapshots of feverish ecstasy. Up on his podium, the DJ throws his head back and laughs; when he leans into the microphone to speak, his voice rings out like god himself.

 

 _“People of Gotham City,”_ he says, and the crowd, if possible, gets even louder. _“I present to you—the Outlaws!”_

 

Abruptly, the lights cut out, the booming thump of the music plummeting into echoing silence. As one, the crowd freezes on a gasp. Hundreds of eyes stare forward into the dark; the anticipation is like a palpable thing in the air, a heartbeat shared in the heat and teeming closeness. _Ba-bump—ba-bump—ba-bump—_ then something shifts in the shadows—

 

The lights flare on, and the crowd roars to life again. Five figures stand in the clearing in the center of the crowd, hands held loosely before them, heads tilted down under plain red baseball caps. A whining, brassy intro starts on the speakers, lilting up and down in a simple, repetitive refrain. A raspy baritone mutters into the rhythm, his words overlapping, echoing and indistinguishable until the music cuts and he declares,

 

_“Nothing can stop me, I’m all the way up.”_

 

The beat drops, and the dancers break into action, shoulders and hips moving in a long swing to the brisk, swaggering tempo of the song. Every movement is ease, confidence, cocky smirks flashing from beneath hat brims, hands fluttering suggestively over chests and hipbones. Bodies curve like water when the words are ground out with aggressive slowness, and jerk with taunting precision when the rap speeds up against the refrain. When the first verse ends, two of the dancers, one in a sleeveless gray t-shirt and the other with fiery red ringlets down to her waist, slide to the front on their knees while the remaining three stagger back. Gray t-shirt swings his arm out with enough momentum to propel himself to his feet, rotates his shoulders in a lazy circle that carries down to his hips, turns to the side and falls backward to catch himself on one hand and holds the position while his partner takes the dance over from him like a card passing hands. The crowd roars in approval, and by the time the song ends with the five draped over each other in a pose of engineered nonchalance, the din inside the warehouse is so loud the DJ’s voice can barely break through.

 

 _“Alright, alright,”_ he drawls, chuckling in amusement. _“They’re Gotham’s sweethearts for a reason—it’s because they never disappoint. Let’s give it up one more time for the Outlaws!”_

 

The crowd hollers their enthusiasm, surging forward to surround the dancers. In the middle of the jostling bodies and cheering spectators, one of the dancers pushes his way forward to grab the frontman in the gray t-shirt by the shoulders. “Shit, Jaybird, we killed it!” he crows, throat bared in a victorious laugh. “We fucking _wrecked_ this thing!”

 

Jason snorts, lifting his cap off to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky, Harper.”

 

“Roy’s right,” says one of the other dancers, dark-skinned with an easy white smile. “We’ve got this shit on lockdown.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt to be humble,” says the last of the back-row dancers, running a hand through damp, dark curls. “Especially since the season’s just starting.”

 

“But it also does not hurt to acknowledge our successes,” cuts in the frontwoman, shaking out her long mane of red hair, and like that it’s settled, decided with the finality of our voice. Her eyes glimmer technicolor-green as she smiles at them. “We performed well tonight, boys. I am proud of us.”

 

Duke grins, eyes crinkling at the corner. “If Kori says we did good, then we did _good._ ”

 

Roy scrubs one hand through his red undercut and slings the other arm over Jason’s shoulder. “What do you say we celebrate tonight?”

 

“We don’t even know if we won yet,” Kyle points out. He glances up at the DJ’s podium to where the judges are conferring, their heads bent together as they glance out over the crowd.

 

“C’mon, Rayner,” Roy starts, mouth curling--but whatever he’s about to say next is abruptly cut off, swallowed by the shrill scream that rises from the other end of the warehouse.

 

“Oh my god,” someone shouts. “It’s Nightwing!”

 

Jason’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit,” he says, but it’s too late: A stunned gasp rises from the crowd, an all-consuming moment of shock rippling outwards from the point of origin. Then the mass of bodies immediately begins to flood across the floor, anyone standing in the way of the exodus shoved aside in the dash for a good view. Kyle stumbles as someone knocks into his shoulder and latches on to Jason for support, brows rising in surprise.

 

“You think it’s really him?” he asks, gaze searching ahead in the herd. “Here, in Gotham?”

 

“It’s possible, I guess,” Jason says. “He goes everywhere, doesn’t he?”

 

“C’mon, what’re we waiting for?” Duke is already pushing forward, eyes glittering in excitement. “Man, how crazy would it be if it is him? Dude’s a legend. I’ve been hoping he’d come to Gotham since that one video of him dancing to Tupac on the Eiffel Tower.”

 

Kori hooks her hand around Jason’s free arm, letting Jason part the crowd for her as she follows gracefully behind him. “This ‘Nightwing’—he is the dancer in the viral videos that you have all been watching lately?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him,” Jason confirms, pushing through the last of the bodies separating them from the front, “but if it’s not some wannabe imposter and he actually did leave the gilded streets of Europe for this dump, I’ll eat my own—"

 

And then the rest of the sentence falls through as Jason pulls up short in his tracks, mouth half-open, because _holy shit_ —holy _shit._ It _is_ him, truly and undeniably. The plain black joggers with a single stripe of neon blue up the legs, the deep navy chevron splayed across the chest of his form-fitting, sleeveless black hoodie, the eyes that flash in mirthful slivers of electric sapphire above the cowl pulled over the bottom half of his face—the combination is as distinctive and inimitable as a fingerprint. _Jesus Christ,_ Jason thinks, watching as Nightwing circles in place around the space the crowd has cleared for him, eyeing them all with a playful tilt of his head. _What are the chances?_

 

A song has already started on the speakers, low and sultry with a muffled beat, and the moment Ariana Grande begins crooning _“I’m so into you, I can barely breathe,”_ Nightwing segues into shoulder roll that travels down into a lazy circle of his hips, then drops down to balance inches from the floor on nothing but his toes, each of his transitions so painfully graceful they look almost like ballet moves. Within moments the crowd is mesmerized, watching as he practically glides around the circle, every motion flowing into the next like water, as if it’s easier for him to dance than to walk like a weighted human. The song builds, the words rising in volume, until the beat breaks into an aggressive, poppy synth track, and without a breath of pause Nightwing follows, his moves sliding from smooth and sensual to sharp, fun, eyes flashing in the multicolored lights, the shape of a smile visible under the thin cloth over his mouth. The way his body traces the rhythm of the song makes Jason itch under his skin, heat crawling up his neck, and he’s just about to grab Roy and Kori and get the fuck out of there when Ariana declares _“A little bit dangerous, but baby that’s how I want it”_ and Nightwing sways backwards on his haunches, going lower and lower with each step, until he’s on the opposite side of the clearing and his eyes rise to lock onto Jason’s, like two magnets clanging together across the screaming press of bodies around them.

 

Jason freezes, rooted in place, as Nightwing tilts his head up to bare the slender curve of his throat, raises one hand from his thigh, and waggles his fingers in a tiny beckon in Jason’s direction, eyes blue and laughing under the strands of damp black hair that have fallen into his face. He pops up onto his feet, takes barely half a step as a running start, and launches himself in the air, performing three perfect end-over-end forward flips across the floor to stick a flawless landing three inches from Jason’s chest. The crowd screams and Jason stares, speechless, but Nightwing just grins and reaches up, swings out and around as his left foot digs side-to-side into the concrete underneath him, draws his arms back in just in time to grasp at the bottom of his hoodie and ease it up his bare abs to the beat of _“A little less conversation and a little more touch my body, I’m so—”_

 

 _Into you, into you, into you,_ Jason thinks, as Nightwing leans forward and rolls his body in a facsimile of a touch against Jason’s space, then falls back on his heels just in time to wink at Jason over the dark fabric of his cowl.

 

“Holy shit,” Duke laughs, like he’s having the time of his life, but Jason is useless to respond, any and all coherent thoughts struck from his head with the lightning of impossibly blue eyes.

 

Eventually, it’s Roy who jostles Jason’s arm, yelling in his ear “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Jason starts, blinking; it’s like his mind has been nothing but static for the last sixty seconds, and now he’s back in his body again, feeling like he’s just been slapped out of some strange fever dream. He swallows, tears his gaze away from the black-and-blue figure still holding the attention of the crowd, and grabs Duke and Kyle, turning away from the performance to follow Roy and Kori through the mob and out of the warehouse.

 

The five of them spill out into the crisp, clear air. The moment the warehouse doors swing shut behind them, blocking out the booming music, Duke turns to them, a wide, dopey grin still stretching across his face. “Holy shit,” he repeats. “Holy _shit._ He’s even better in person, isn’t he?”

 

Kyle just groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t know you could lose unofficiated underground dance competitions, but I think we just did.”

 

Doused in the cold, smoky Gotham night, the chill of the wind cooling his feverish cheeks, Jason feels a little more like himself again. “We’ll have other chances,” he says. He starts towards the Narrows, towards home, and the others follow, falling into step behind him.

 

“Not if Nightwing stays in Gotham,” Duke says. “I mean, we’re good, but him? He’s something else.”

 

“I hope he stays,” Kyle says. “We could really learn from someone like him.”

 

Jason hums his acknowledgement, but it’s Roy who responds, a wary edge to his voice. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s skilled, but--didn’t you guys feel like there was something off about him?”

 

Duke barks out a laugh. “You jealous, Harper?”

 

Jason can practically feel Roy rolling his eyes. “No, idiot, I just--I felt like he was familiar, somehow. Like I knew him from somewhere.”

 

“Could it possibly be from the dozens of videos we’ve watched of him?” Kyle drawls.

 

“Know him _personally_ , Rayner, I’m not brain-dead.”

 

“I agree with Roy,” Kori chimes, thoughtful. “I also felt as if I knew him personally, though I cannot think where.”

 

Duke’s voice turns sly. “Maybe he _is_ someone you know,” he says. “I mean, the dude does wear a mask. He could be anybody.”

 

At that, Jason laughs, tilting his head back to let the cold breeze run its fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “Someone like him, from a shithole like here?”

 

Duke laughs, jostling him playfully from behind. “Hey,” he says. “Anything’s possible.”

 

“Alright, dreamer,” Jason chuckles. They turn onto August Street, and Jason pulls his ring of keys from his pocket, jangling for the right one as they climb up the stoop to the door of their apartment above the shop. “Everyone, get some rest. Garage opens tomorrow at eight, bright ‘n early.”

 

A collective groan rises from behind him, but no one protests; as soon as they’re inside, everyone scatters, eager to grab a few hours of sleep before the day of work begins in the morning. Jason heads to the bathroom to wash the sweat and product off his face before collapsing into bed, exhaling as he lets his tired bones sink into the lumpy mattress underneath him.

  
In the three am quiet, the music from the warehouse comes back to him, thumping in time with the thud of his heartbeat in his chest. _I’m so into you, into you, into you,_ he hears, and sees a pair of laughing blue eyes, alive in the electric dark.

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i've watched this one millennium dance complex choreography video set to ariana grande's into you so many times that i think about it upon waking and hear it in my head over conversations, so like, i had to write this, alright?? 
> 
> on that note, this will be (if all goes well) part 1 of a long, plotty series because, hey, i live for a good au, even if i'm the one who has to write it. i also know next to nothing about duke and kyle's personalities, so if any of you can give me some advice or link me to fics/resources that would help me out in that direction, i'd be forever indebted to you. 
> 
> this thing is Trash, but...i'm into it??? let me know in the comments if you guys are too, & thanks as always for readin :)


End file.
